


The Ghosts That Talk

by FunkyinFishnet



Series: Perchance To Dream [1]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, Family, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Prophecy, Prophets, Relationship(s), Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sibyl hears the gods from a very young age, so she grows up in a temple, learning how to be a prophet from Sura and the sisterhood, learning how to divine the gods’ meanings and help those that seek answers. She dreams of death and the same faces over and over. She is blessed enough to meet two of them, and hopes that she can bless Agron and Nasir in equal measure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

The first time that Sibyl heard the gods whisper, she had only seen four summers. The voices guided her to a well long-thought dry, only Sibyl drew water from it to drink and took a full bucket back to her family. When she recalled her actions, her mother gasped and let out a string of heartfelt prayer. The gods had blessed them indeed. That day, Sibyl was taken to the nearest temple, where she talked to women with covered heads and bare feet, women who asked her questions. Sibyl told them about the whispers, and how she liked the whisperers smiling at her.

 

 

“They smile,” one of the women agreed with a nod and haunted eyes. “But that is not all they do.”

 

 

Sibyl's parents were given a purse of money and the promise of more. They hugged Sibyl and thanked the sisterhood with much gratefulness. They rushed away with barely a glance back towards their little daughter. Sibyl never saw them again.

 

 

Her life was full after that anyway, with the whispers and the teachings of the sisterhood. Sura looked after her, Sura whose hair was ink-black and whose eyes sparkled with whispers unsaid. She held Sibyl's hand and painted unknown words on her skin. It tickled and Sibyl laughed, a noise which made Sura smile too. Sibyl liked to watch Sura, the colours of her dress were pretty in the sun and the words on her arm were as interesting and mysterious as those adorning Sibyl.

 

 

Sibyl learned that she was blessed, that the whisperers – the gods – did not speak to everyone, that it was her duty to listen and interpret, to be their voice.

 

 

“Do you hear them?” she asked Sura one day.

 

 

“I would not live here otherwise,” Sura replied. “It is my gift too.”

 

 

Sibyl learned of former prophets and their prophecies, of rivers that had run red with blood and silver with fish, of deaths unprevented because the gods willed it, of miracles and pain. As she grew older, the whispers became louder. She watched as many people crowded the temple, with gifts and questions, wishing to know what the gods held forth for them. She watched as Sura answered, always with peace and smiles, even if her words were warnings. No one would dare strike a prophet.

 

 

“This will be your life soon,” Sura told her one night, pressing a finger to the words still written on Sibyl's arm.

 

 

Sibyl did not know what the words meant. Sura told her that the day she understood their meaning would be the day that she alone spoke for the gods in that temple. It was how Sura had gained her position – the previous prophet had left once Sura had divined the meaning of the words that ran down her own arm, words that had not faded.

 

 

“What do your words mean?”

 

 

“Something unspoken.”

 

 

It took Sibyl some time to realise that she and Sura alone in the sisterhood still heard the gods.

 

 

“Why do the others stay?”

 

 

“They heard the gods once, but the voices did not linger long with them. They were touched briefly and wish to continue serving in hope that they will hear the whispers again.”

 

 

When Sibyl woke from her first nightmare, voices screaming in her head as blood flowed and life ended, she wished that one of those sisters held such a gift in her place.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

The nightmares continued as Sibyl grew tall, wide-eyed, and pale, a flower kept carefully in the shade. She was told that the nightmares were another blessing, the gods telling her in dreams what they could not say during daylight hours. Some nights left her exhausted with watery eyes and no one to soothe her. She came to hate the darkness.

 

 

She did not cover her hair as the other sisters did, preferring to wear it in a long complicated braid. Sometimes, she remembered her mother arranging her own hair in such a way. During the rare times that Sibyl walked outside, to drink in the world that she gained such insight into, a clutch of temple guards walked with her, for a prophet must be kept safe. Sibyl could always see them out of the corner of her eye.

 

 

Sura was not followed by guards. She had two bodyguards, Saxa a blonde woman who overflowed with laughter and a keenness for blood, and Mira who always carried a bow. Sometimes they moved as one person and Sibyl's breath quickened. She wondered what it would be like, to have someone so attuned to her.

 

 

She asked Sura where the bodyguards had come from. Sura told her a story of Saxa, bound in chains and sent across a great sea for sale into slavery. Once upon land, she gained her freedom, burying a dagger in a slaver’s neck. Sura had dreamed of that, just as she had dreamed of Mira, an apprentice in another far-off temple, helping a man called Lucius until the temple was destroyed and Mira was the only one to stagger and survive.

 

 

“And they came here?” Sibyl asked, eyes wondering and wide.

 

 

“Mira was looking for direction, for where the gods would place her now, and Saxa was passing the door. I talked to them of what I had dreamed. They saw what they needed in each other and in a purpose by my side.”

 

 

Sibyl had noticed how Mira and Saxa looked at one another. The temple did not afford much privacy or time away from duty, yet the two continually chose to stay.

 

 

“They may not hear the gods, but they feel the pull of duty, and enjoy the sanctuary of the temple. When my time here ends, they shall have their reward.”

 

 

Sura sounded wistful, almost haunted, something Sibyl had only glimpsed in her before. Sura was usually so at peace, so full of whispers, and able to divine what needed to be said. Now though, there was a haunted sadness to her and a question hovered on Sibyl’s tongue.

 

 

She felt the gods whisper and let her question fly. “What dreams haunt you?”

 

 

Sura’s smile was quick and knowing and she lit a candle before answering. “The first dream the gods ever sent me, when I was but your age, was of a red serpent, heralding the death of a warrior. I have never stopped having that dream, nor has he ever truly left my thoughts. I wonder if he still lives.”

 

 

Sibyl lowered her eyes, this vision and grief was Sura’s alone. She pressed herself closer to Sura’s side though and counted the candles left by pilgrims, offering each one to the gods on the pilgrims’ behalf. A prophet's work was never done.

 

 

Sibyl's nightmares were still bloody and often featured the same people. There were young men, fighting and screaming as their village was plundered. They survived, only...Sibyl awoke crying, with names on her lips. Sura watched her light candles for each of the people she saw die in her dreams. She offered no comfort except that the gods had a purpose in sharing such horror. Sibyl washed her hands and wished she could stop seeing blood. She asked the gods for answers.

 

 

Some days later, there was shouting outside and the temple guards struggled with a young man in the doorway. He was scarred across the chest and his face was a mask of despair. Sibyl almost dropped the book she was studying. She knew the face, and the name that went with it. Sura pressed a hand to her arm.

 

 

“Listen, and speak.”

 

 

Sibyl took a deep breath, calling upon her training and upon the gods themselves. What is your will? The whispers started. The guards were snarling.

 

 

“This thief will be punished.”

 

 

“I am no fucking thief! The gods do not eat this food, yet it piles up while I crawl on fucking belly to...”

 

 

The man was hit hard in the face. “Silence!”

 

 

Sibyl stepped forward, the sisters falling back as she approached, recognising her purposeful walk. Sibyl's heart thundered, but the nightmare images did not fade and the whispers persisted. She felt Sura's eyes at her back, unspooling prayers in Sibyl's name. She was not alone, she never was. And this man had need of her.

 

 

“My lady, apologies. This thief will be punished for his blasphemy.”

 

 

Sibyl interrupted. “There is no need. The gods brought him here.”

 

 

The silence was stunned now, both the guards and the thief gaping at her. “My lady?”

 

 

Sibyl turned her attention to the astonished man. “Agron, of lands running east of the Rhine, I am glad to meet you.”

 

 

Agron was allowed to his feet and he looked at Sibyl as though she was a vision unexplained. Sibyl smiled gently, he was so lost and in such pain. She thanked the gods for bringing him to the temple; she hoped that she would serve them well. She hoped she could ease the ache that pierced him.

 

 

“Come.” She gestured for him to follow her into the temple. “Eat and listen to what the gods say.”

 

 

The temple guards looked worried but did not protest. They had seen such things happen before and they dared not question a prophet, even a young one still training. Agron moved sluggish and wary, his eyes fixed on her. Sura nodded at Sibyl, her smile sweet and knowing, her bodyguards amused shadows behind her. Sibyl's breath caught, more images blossomed behind her eyes.

 

 

She stopped in a small alcove, where food was often prepared. Sibyl sat, gracefully adjusting her dress, the skirts of it hushing against the floor, and began filling her plate. Agron watched then hesitantly grasped a flatbread and when he was not punished, ate heartily. It warmed Sibyl; he had not eaten properly in days.

 

 

“How can you know these things?” Agron asked at last, sounding so young, though his years were more than hers.

 

 

Sibyl inclined her head. “You stole from a temple of the gods. They speak through the sisterhood; it is a gift I am blessed with.”

 

 

“Those who hear the gods were not blessed amongst my people,” Agron replied, his eyes intent on her. “Most were driven mad.”

 

 

Sibyl swallowed but she did not correct him. There were stories of prophets damaged by what they saw and heard, their minds torn apart by the agony of suffering and hopelessness. Those who were lucky enough to survive had to wait until a new apprentice was discovered, only then could they eventually leave the temple and begin a new life beyond its walls, if such a thing was possible.

 

 

Sibyl pushed her mind back towards Agron. She had to choose her words carefully, he had known so much pain, he would not wish to hear of it from the mouth of a stranger. Still, the gods pushed her and showed her more. Sibyl gasped and Agron's hand darted forward, but did not touch her.

 

 

“The gods show me,” Sibyl assured him. “You have suffered so much.”

 

 

Agron's expression twisted with pain and horror. “And they compel you to feel it?”

 

 

“Sometimes, if it is their will. You are lost, without family or purpose, and you carry the grief of your village.”

 

 

Agron's hand curled into a fist. “I have purpose, to kill the fucks who tore through what I once called home.”

 

 

Sibyl's hand lightly touched his fist. He jerked in surprise but did not draw back as her touch became firmer, like a lifeline. Who for, Sibyl could not say.

 

 

“That is a purpose without end. Blood will not fill what is empty inside.” Here she paused, for the words she would speak next would be so very difficult and raw for Agron to hear. “I saw you as I slept, you and your brother. Duro was singing, he was very bad at it.”

 

 

Every part of Agron tensed at his brother's name, but Sibyl did not let go of his hand. There were tears forming in the corners of her eyes as she continued.

 

 

“He drank sweetened ale and loved a woman with red hair. Your sister was better at swordplay than him but he did not stop learning and he never stopped following you.”

 

 

She did not speak of Duro's death, when he and Agron were set upon by soldiers as they travelled between villages, desperately trying to survive. Duro had taken a sword blow meant for Agron and had died in his brother's arms. Agron had had to leave his brother's body there.

 

 

Sibyl's tears fell, because she had seen Duro's smile, which was like the sun breaking through clouds, and she had seen how he and Agron were everything to each other. She cried because if Agron left his heartwound untended, bloodlust would consume him and then Duro would truly disappear. Her tears fell and Agron let them.

 

 

“He always sang like the fucking crows.” Agron's voice was choked, before it became hard again. “Why do the gods torture us both? Do they promise miracles?”

 

 

Sibyl shook her head. Filling the dead with life was not something she or Sura had ever envisioned. All was possible for the gods, but not all was granted. It was a mystery Sibyl often prayed about but she never received an answer.

 

 

“They wish for you to share your pain.”

 

 

Agron looked at her, such yearning and desperation in his face. He examined her, as though trying to guess how her slender form would cope.

 

 

“I have seen fifteen summers,” she confided in him. “And I have dreamed of you so much, wishing to take away your pain. I cannot do that, but I can help you bear it.”

 

 

Agron did not answer, but he did not refuse either.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Agron talked haltingly with Sibyl that day, listening as she spoke, his body taut with grief and pain. He watched as she tended to candles, and looked wild-eyed when the whispers became louder, bringing her to her knees. When Sibyl could open her eyes once more, she saw Sura talking quietly to Agron, Saxa at her shoulder.

 

 

 

It was revealed that Saxa was from the same land as Agron. The pair were glad to speak the language of home together and were even happier to test each other’s skill with a blade. Sibyl watched as they circled one another in the back courtyard, a joy kindling between them. She exchanged smiles with Sura.

 

 

 

“The gods provide,” Sura said softly.

 

 

 

Such a thought had been with Sibyl since laying eyes on Agron, her many visions of him aligning. She listened as Saxa and Agron exchanged harsh-sounding words. Mira appeared at her shoulder, she was always courteous and kind. Her warmth was a gift, and a loving contrast to Saxa’s sharpness.

 

 

 

“He asks why a warrior chains herself to a temple,” Mira revealed quietly. “Saxa replies that there are many fights and she’s glad to face them, at my side and Lady Sura’s.”

 

 

 

As the temple’s prophet, Sura regularly left the temple to observe the world, settle disputes, and visit those who needed it. Sometimes, she encountered people who wished a prophet harm or who wanted her for their own purposes. It was why she had Saxa and Mira.

 

 

 

That night, Agron still had not left and after he had eaten and drunk his fill, Sibyl asked him to stand at her side, as Saxa and Mira did at Sura’s.

 

 

 

He paused, disbelief on his face. “I am not devout. I fuck, I drink, I brawl.”

 

 

 

“We are none of us perfect.”

 

 

 

Sibyl did not blush as she spoke, she had witnessed Saxa and Mira coupling in whatever corners close to private they could gain and she had seen visions that had taught her much of the world. She already knew that Agron would never desire to bed her.

 

 

 

She stepped closer and tried to let the gods speak through her. “We can bear each other’s weight.”

 

 

 

She could not say that she saw other visions of him, happier, adoring, a slighter man at his side. That vision could be like Sura’s snake, a forever mystery, a maybe future. She would not add to Agron’s pain.

 

 

 

“Do you believe what I’ve told you?” she asked him. “What I’ve seen?”

 

 

 

Agron’s knee was already turned towards her as his eyes searched her again. His head seemed to nod of its own accord and Sibyl smiled, surer than ever.  


 

 

 

*

 

 

 

An extra pallet was placed in Sibyl’s room. Agron was given clean simple breeches, for ease of movement and relief from the heat, and was allowed a tub of cool water to bathe in. Saxa claimed she would order a sword for him when they were next passing the blacksmith. For now, Agron could use one of hers.

 

 

 

He stood watching at Sibyl’s shoulder as people arrived to ask questions and bring her gifts. Both poor and rich crowded in, wishing for a moment of her time. Now that Sibyl was growing stronger in her divinations, Sura could walk further beyond the temple to reach those who could not travel themselves, and those too rich to travel too far. It left Sibyl with a great sea of people to speak to. Sometimes it made her head ache.

 

 

 

Agron intervened several times, when those roused by passion or anger or grief came too close. Each time, he drew his sword with unfurled anger.  


 

 

 

Sibyl always kept her eyes on the people before her, never on Agron’s movements. He did not interrupt her when she spoke to the pilgrims, though she caught his sneer when the rich showered her with praise and persuasion, wanting to hear what they desired. Sibyl had the gods in her head and Agron at her side; she felt strong enough to speak the truth.

 

 

 

“Is it always so busy?” Agron asked her, lying on the pallet beside hers.

 

 

 

Sibyl half nodded, sleep clouding her mind and movements. “So many seek answers. They crowd my head. I cannot answer them all.”

 

 

 

There was a cool touch to her forehead, then at her temples. It was not the touch of a lover. A brother perhaps? Sibyl had only known sisters before. She leaned into the hand that was trying to ease her pain.

 

 

 

“Where is your home?” Agron asked.

 

 

 

“Here,” Sibyl’s answer was immediate. “My parents brought me to the temple when I found water in a dry well at the gods’ command. I was four in years.”

 

 

 

Agron’s touch paused. “Your parents have not sought you since?”

 

 

 

Sibyl’s shoulders rippled. She felt no pain when talking of her parents, why should she? She did not know them. “I am no longer their daughter. The gods provide.”

 

 

 

She lived amongst sisters, and now she had a brother too. The gods had provided indeed. She did not hear any more of Agron’s questions as slumber took her and she saw him in her dreams instead, that dark-skinned man at his side, beautiful and broken. Together, they found the beginning of something.

 

 

 

“It is a journey, better made together,” she murmured, both asleep and awake.

 

 

 

Agron woke her when the sun rose, his expression touched with worry. “You spoke as you slept. More visions?”

 

 

 

Sibyl smiled, the memory of the man’s name fresh and new in her mind. “I hope it is so.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“Sura screams most nights. I hear her.”

 

 

 

“That is her vision, given to her since she was a child.”

 

 

 

“Her pain to bear?”

 

 

 

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is what awaits her one day.”

 

 

 

“That is no reward.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Agron’s sword was delivered by Saxa, a fine broadsword that weighed well in his hand. Sibyl had no love of weaponry but she liked to see Agron happy as he tested the sword’s metal against Mira. Saxa wrapped an arm around Sura’s shoulders; she was not reverent with the prophet. She had told Sibyl that Sura had told her things, had offered her an attractive path, and that they were as family now. That was all that mattered to Saxa. Some of the other sisters were nervous in Saxa’s presence, but Sibyl always felt safe.

 

 

 

She could see a kinship between Saxa and Agron and thanked the gods daily for bringing Agron some sense of peace, a place to rest, people who cared and stood at his side. Most of all, he had gained purpose other than blood and revenge and Sibyl was glad to trust him, to know that the whispers still spoke true.

 

 

 

He never stopped grieving for Duro though and he never stopped being angry. The days when his temper grew hottest Saxa dragged him outside, to the land behind the temple, and forced his anger into sparring. It was for Saxa as much as for Agron. It always ended with them sweating and glaring at one another, sometimes bleeding. But tempers usually cooled and they knocked shoulders as they entered the temple once more.

 

 

 

Agron went with her whenever Sibyl walked the outside world. She was grateful for his company; he was unafraid to talk in her presence, unlike the temple guards, and he teased her as Sura and Saxa did. It made her smile and lifted her spirits when the weight of the whispers grew too great.

 

 

 

Villagers were respectful and reverent, hanging on her words and draining her of answers. Agron had learned to read for when her body was about to sway and always stepped in to announce the prophet’s departure. Sometimes he had to carry her back to the temple. He was the only man permitted to touch her, and was vehement in ensuring that others obeyed that command.

 

 

 

“The gods ask too much of you,” he told her after one particularly draining visit to a nearby village had left her still and silent for many hours.

 

 

 

Sibyl squeezed his wrist. He did not want to lose another and she did not wish to leave him yet. The gods had blessed them when Agron had stolen from this temple in place of any other. She would do all they asked, for Sura could not bear the weight alone and people needed to hear answers. The gods had given Sibyl so much amongst the pain; she would always follow their lead. For who was she without them?

 

 

 

Agron watched her with anguished anger, but his touch was gentle and Sibyl leaned gratefully towards him. She could not bear this alone either. Together, they could swim above the tide.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

When Sibyl passed her seventeenth summer, two events of significance occurred - Agron cut his hair and Nasir walked into their lives.

 

 

Agron cut his hair because it was the tradition amongst his people to do so once certain grieving time had passed. He began hacking at the long matted strands with a heated blade and a drawn-in expression, until Saxa took the blade and cut the rest. Sibyl thought of Duro, the man who continued to smile and die in her dreams, and whispered rounds of prayers. Agron looked nowhere but straight ahead, his thoughts his own.

 

 

Nasir first became known to them when a rich merchant arrived at the temple. Sura was speaking with a crowd of pilgrims and Sibyl was quietly contemplating the visions she had received that morning when the merchant, Pullo, walked in, several servants trailing behind him. His clothes were expensive and he pulled a bag of coins from his belt as he proclaimed that he wished to hear the words of the temple prophet.

 

 

Sibyl’s eyes were drawn to the servant at Pullo’s right shoulder – a man with dark skin, a slight build, and such beauty of face and figure. He was a little older than her, she knew, and had served in Pullo’s house since his very youngest years. She had seen him in her dreams for many nights now. She turned slightly and saw that yes, Agron was staring at him, spellbound.

 

 

Nasir was to be a vision realised, or so Sibyl hoped with so much of her heart. She mouthed prayers and pleas as she stood and once more the calm of the gods began settling about her shoulders like a favoured cloak. Agron fell into step a pace behind her, his footsteps a welcome reassurance.

 

 

“What do you ask of the gods?”

 

 

Sibyl’s voice was clear and controlled in the quiet of the temple, and Pullo looked at her as though she was food for a starving man. Sibyl’s skin crawled and she tried not to remember the stories she had heard of prophets taken against their will. She would not be, and Agron would never allow such a thing. She lifted her chin, her expression welcoming.

 

 

“The gods will hear what you ask, if you speak it.”

 

 

Pullo threw the purse at her feet. Sibyl did not stoop to retrieve it, another sister did and Sibyl thanked her. Pullo was like so many rich men who entered the temple, entitled and proud, believing he owned the world and that even the gods themselves would bend to his desires. Sibyl had been taught otherwise.

 

 

“I wish to hear of what the new year will bring, what delights the gods will rain upon us.”

 

 

Pullo took liberties as he spoke, his gaze raking her as he neared until his breath touched her. Nasir’s expression was mask-like but Sibyl flinched under her skin, thinking of what she’d seen Nasir live in her dreams. She wished she could reach out to him, but this had to be played carefully. Sibyl had seen Sura untangle such delicate visions before, it was her turn now.

 

 

She stared at Pullo for a moment and when he didn’t move, shifted her left foot, which brought Agron forward, a hand on his sword. He would have noticed sooner, had his gaze not been so fixed on Nasir. Now he looked furious.

 

 

“To ask such things of the gods, you must treat their vessels with respect,” Sibyl said, outwardly as poised as Sura and her tone simple and even, so as to cause no offence. Inside, she felt like trembling, but the gods did not desire that.

 

 

She turned before Pullo could reply and walked to an area away from the open doorway. Agron now kept his eyes on Pullo, his hands clearly itching to use his sword on the merchant. Only two of Pullo’s servants came forward with him, Chadara and Nasir. Sibyl had expected it to be so. She asked for more from the gods, Agron offering her a hand as she sat. He was still growing used to such mannered movements, seeing no worth in them upon his arrival, but Saxa, Mira, and Sibyl had taught him that such movement was a weapon – none who came asking at the temple could touch the prophet, but he could. Many would dismiss him as a criminal or thug, but he had position that few were allowed and with small gestures, he could demonstrate and use such a gift.

 

 

Sibyl faced Pullo and waited expectantly. Finding no chair for himself, Pullo launched into a great speech of trading and politics and what he would ask of the gods. Sibyl nodded and closing her eyes, began sifting through the whispers, deftly searching for a thread that would provide answers.

 

 

“Does she sleep?”

 

 

“She listens to the gods.” Agron’s tone was heavy with derision at Pullo’s question. “To hear what they would say of you.”

 

 

Pullo’s pacing feet were impatient and Sibyl focused to block them, Nasir, and all other distractions so that she could find Pullo’s truth. A shudder worked through her as an image of battles and ruins flooded her mind. She gasped and shook, calming slightly when Agron’s hands cradled her shoulders and his mouth spoke careful words to her, edged with worry and affection. He was there, he was real, he wasn’t just a dream. Sibyl focused on him and spooled herself home.

 

 

She opened her eyes to find Pullo’s gaze intent on her. “There are many paths before you, some lead to great loss and honour in battle, a ruined household awaiting its master's return. Some lead to greater fortune.”

 

 

She detailed the choices ahead of Pullo, as detailed as she could be with the images the gods put forth. Nasir was still there, a dream, a possibility at his master’s shoulder. Agron’s gaze flickered to him often.

 

 

Pullo nodded. “And you, my lady? When the gods find another to speak their words, will you take a husband?”

 

 

He was fishing, perhaps hoping to take her as a lover or see her married in a manner which would profit him. When she left the temple for good, she would have no protection from such things. But Agron was at her side and their fates were now bound together. Sibyl thanked the heavens.

 

 

“I will go where the gods lead,” she answered. “As will Agron.”

 

 

“Of course.”

 

 

Pullo’s expression and tone spoke greatly of his thoughts on Agron’s position. Agron’s hackles rose at the perceived disrespect but Sibyl motioned for him to stay where he was.

 

 

Pullo smirked. “I see why you keep him.”

 

 

“He is my hands and feet and close in my affections,” Sibyl spoke simple truth. “And you have more questions.”

 

 

Pullo moved near once more and this time, Agron stepped immediately forward, his sword drawn.

 

 

“You forget your place.”

 

 

“And you think too fucking highly of yours.”

 

 

Sibyl kept her eyes on Pullo, her heart thudding. Here lay the most precarious part of her path and already it slanted beneath her feet. It was time to give it voice. “The gods distribute as they will, as they will soon bless your marriage.”

 

 

Pullo froze and looked hard at her. “What do you know of this?”

 

 

“Crissia travels the river for your wedding feast. You wish for a prosperous future, as you promised her. She has servants and plans for your household.” Here Sibyl nodded slightly towards Nasir. “She has already made clear that those who have shared your life will now be unwelcome.”

 

 

Sibyl had seen Crissia and Pullo in her dreams, glimpses of a life she would never live, as Nasir was raised into a perfect servant, beautiful and skilled. But Crissia would be lady of the house and would suffer no rival, in or out of her husband's bed. Sibyl held so many threads in her hands; she had to weave them with utmost care.

 

 

Pullo shifted on his feet and looked at her consideringly, he knew when an offer was being made. “And what do the gods suggest?”

 

 

Relief, fresh and sparkling, filled Sibyl but she did not allow her body to show it. This was what she had been trained for, thank the gods. “Leave him in service of the sisterhood; we have need of his company. You will take blessings and assurances home for Crissia. You have cleared the way for her, as she will do for you.”

 

 

Ambition and greed visibly thrummed through Pullo and his gaze lingered regretfully on Nasir. Then he turned abruptly to Sibyl, something like respect and satisfaction in his eyes.

 

 

“The gods smile on me. May Tiberius serve them as well as he has served me.”

 

 

He left the temple soon after, his servants moving smoothly around him. Nasir looked shocked, his mask cracking at such an unexpected change in fortune. This was another thread Sibyl could not fumble. She let out a deep sigh, the tension inside of her finally released. Agron eyed her.

 

 

“You need rest.”

 

 

“Later. I am glad that I served the gods well enough to ensure Tiberius’s place with us.”

 

 

Agron paused, realising. “You dreamed of him.”

 

 

“As I dreamed of you.”

 

 

It was all she could say in Nasir's hearing and she hoped Agron would take meaning from it. She stood and gently approached Nasir, though she would not yet address him by that name – it was his to give, not hers to wield arrogantly. She was younger, yet placed higher above him. His world had been swept away, due to her actions. He could resent her, he could run. She smiled at him, honesty and happiness without a mask, and hoped it would be a good enough start.

 

 

“Welcome home.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

Nasir was intelligent and strong and his eyes roved to take everything in, to learn his new world. Sibyl sat near him and ate to show that he could too, as she had once done with Agron. Nasir did so at her permission, his reaction to authority so different to Agron’s.

 

 

“I dreamed of you,” Sibyl told him. “I dreamed of Agron first and one day, he arrived, stealing our food. I was unsure if I would be blessed by your presence also.”

 

 

“What would you have me do?”

 

 

Nasir seemed curious and Sibyl told him of the sisterhood, of how Saxa and Mira served at Sura’s side and how he could find a place beside her and Agron. Nasir looked confused.

 

 

“I have never held weapons. I would be little use as a bodyguard.”

 

 

“You can learn, as Mira did. There is more wielded here; it is a game of manners and words too.”

 

 

Nasir nodded slowly and took to watching her as she addressed pilgrims and rich traders, those who desired answers and demanded clarity. He saw; better than Agron did, how she and Sura used words so carefully to serve the gods. He was given simple breeches to wear, like Agron he lived bare-chested, and he stood still and poised at Sibyl's side, his eyes taking note of all before him. He did not shrink from this new life, he drank it in.

 

 

Agron drank him in too, his eyes followed Nasir everywhere, a fact that Saxa teased him about greatly. At night, Nasir shared Sibyl’s pallet, inching closer when the weather grew cold. His touch was simple comfort, Sibyl had gained another brother. She had told Nasir the first night that she expected nothing from him but his company. She had sworn on her service to the gods, on the temple itself, though he hadn’t asked her to, so that when he thought about his new life and attempted to puzzle it out, her vows would be part of it.

 

 

“You truly dreamt of me?” he asked one morning as Sibyl fastened her pale gold dress at the waist.

 

 

She smiled softly. “Sometimes you were serving Pullo, but often you were here, with myself and Agron. You were happy.”

 

 

Nasir's eyes glimmered at Agron's name, but Sibyl did not push. It was not her place to. Instead she straightened the front of her dress and dropped her shoulders, taking a deep preparing breath. Nasir watched her carefully, as he always did. Sibyl wondered what he saw.

 

 

*

 

 

Sura hugged her as they sat together, discussing dreams and whispers. Sibyl still dreamed of Duro, laughing and bloodied, and of Agron and Nasir. Sura still dreamed of a snake and the man facing it.

 

 

“They will find their places here,” Sura said quietly, nodding to where Nasir was learning weaponry with Mira and Agron. “Mira and Saxa needed time.”

 

 

Sibyl nodded. Agron was surer of his position and purpose, while Nasir was slowly shedding his former life and what was expected of him there. He could read people as well as any of the sisterhood, a gift indeed. Together, she could see them shining. She was blessed to be who they orbited.

 

 

That afternoon, Nasir indicated to her when a merchant's servants were nervous and disbelieving at their master's words, using only the sound of his feet. He was using the language of bodies that Sibyl herself did, he had learned from watching her. The gods were not just speaking to her through visions and dreams anymore; they were speaking through Agron and Nasir.

 

 

She gently grasped his hands afterwards, shy and inward. Nasir’s hands were starting to gain marks from sparring. He held her gaze expectantly, she told him the truth.

 

 

“I’m so glad the gods sent you here.”

 

 

Nasir smiled. He and Agron had been spending a great deal of time together; they seemed bound to each other. Sura's face was knowing as her fingers played across the writing that adorned her skin. Was it about the warrior who faced the snake?

 

 

When the temple grew colder still, Agron pushed his pallet against Sibyl’s and lay close, Nasir on her other side. She dreamed a new dream that night, of a long-haired Celt who loved and lost, guilt piercing his heart greater than any lover. She saw wine and women and blood, a feast of enjoyment and a river of colour. So much inside of him howled.

 

 

When she awoke, she was wrapped in caring arms, their hands reaching across her for one another, their fingers intertwined. She was surrounded by love, and she knew with startling blessed clarity, what the words on her arm meant.

 

 

_-the end_


End file.
